


you held your head like a hero

by melessatarlys



Series: all the kingdom lights shined (just for me and you) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melessatarlys/pseuds/melessatarlys
Summary: In which Jon comes home after ten long years and finds solace (and acceptance) in the godswood.





	you held your head like a hero

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something I wrote originally as part of a longer Odysseus/Penelope remix that has since become a series of smaller drabbles. There are a few more in the works, but chronologically this is the first.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr, title from Long Live by Taylor Swift.

“Is that Longclaw?” The voice startles him, focused as he was on the blade of his sword. Looking up is like looking into the past, for surely the boy before him could be his younger self, all dark curls and solemn grey eyes.

 

 _My son_ , Jon thinks, and the thought expands like a tightness in his chest. _Eddard - my son._

 

“It is.” He doesn’t want to look away, wants to spend the rest of his days drinking in the sight of his son there in the godswood, but nor does he want to make Eddard uncomfortable, so he returns his attention to his sword. The blade hardly needs the sharpening – there were times, beyond the wall, when he’d had nothing but time on his hands, and the sword had borne the brunt of that boredom – but it keeps his hands busy while he rests in the godswood.

 

“Mother told me about it,” Eddard says, his voice quiet and serious and so much like his namesake that if Jon were to close his eyes he could almost imagine his ~~father~~ uncle here beneath the heart tree, as if they had never left Winterfell and nothing bad had ever happened. “That Lord Commander Mormont gave it to you, that it used to have a bear’s head on the hilt but he had it changed to a wolf for you. She said it’s our house sword now.”

 

“That’s true,” Jon replies, running a hand lightly over the hilt where the wolf’s red eyes still gleamed. “It’ll be yours someday, and all the Starks after you.” 

 

The sunlight filters dimly through the trees as Eddard moves. One step forward, then two. “They named me King the North,” he says finally, uncomfortably, as though dragging it out of himself. Jon can see the tension in the boy’s shoulders, the wariness in his eyes, and thinks, not for the first time, that Sansa chose their son’s name well.

 

“I know,” he says. And then, “From what I hear you’ve been a good one.” What he’s heard came almost entirely from Sam as the maester had fretted over him, full of stories of the years Jon has missed. _He’s so much like you, Jon,_ Sam had said as he inspected some new scar that Jon had clumsily sewn shut himself.

 

Looking at his son now, all Jon can see is the man his son is named for and the brother whose title he now holds. In coloring he is all Stark, but there is something of Robb, of Sansa, in the set of his jaw, in the way he stands so tall and proud for all his ten years and in spite of his uncertainty. The boy shifts uncomfortably under the praise.

 

“You can have it back now, the title.” Eddard says seriously, and that, at least, surprises Jon. Not that his son would willingly part with a title his lords bannermen had bestowed on him, but that he would do it so easily for this father he has barely met, who he knows only from stories. Jon wants to take his son in his arms then, to hold him tightly as he should have been around to do from the beginning. But there is still a lesson to be had, here, and so he does not.

 

“You would give away the title your lords bannermen gave you?” He asks, careful to keep his tone impartial and focusing once more on his sword. Still, he does not miss the crinkle in Eddard’s brow or the tilt of his head as he thinks. Jon sets aside his sword, patting the spot next to him. Eddard looks uncertain, but comes to perch on the giant root next to him.

 

“They made me king because they thought you were dead,” he says finally, carefully, as though considering every word. “It was just after my seventh name day. They had all come for the harvest feast and they all told Mother and Ser Davos that you were probably dead, or you would have come back by then.” Eddard stops talking then, hands fidgeting with a piece of loose bark on the root beneath him. Still, Jon says nothing, sensing that his son isn’t finished.

 

“So they only wanted me to be king because they couldn’t have you. If they thought you were still alive I don’t think they would have done it. Not with Mother and Ser Davos in charge while you were away.” 

 

A hand on his son’s shoulder’s brings Eddard’s careful gaze around to look at Jon. A thousand memories come flooding in of himself in his son’s place, of Ned Stark’s hand heavy but warm on his shoulder as he and Robb were imparted with some wisdom or another, but Jon pushes them away.

 

“Perhaps you might tell the lords bannermen that, when they arrive. I imagine they will agree with you, but they _did_ name you king. It would be good for you to address them.” Eddard nods solemnly, and Jon feels his lips curve up in a small smile. His son doesn’t smile back, but his shoulders relax under Jon’s hand as some of the uncertainty falls away.

 

Jon doesn’t want to be king, has never wanted to be king, but he will not leave that heavy mantle on his son’s shoulders. A boy of ten, and already he has twice the understanding that Jon did at his age. Some of that comes from Sansa, he is certain – Sansa and her steady, guiding hand and a better aptitude for politics than he’ll ever possess. Sansa, who should be queen in her own right but who had defended his crown in his absence and who had helped their son adjust his stance to bear the weight. Sansa, who would only tell him he was being stupid if he tried to lay his crown at her feet and name her queen.

 

“Mother never thought you were dead,” Eddard says, startling Jon from his thoughts. His son is looking up at him, eyes serious but no less earnest, as though begging Jon to understand. “Not truly. She let them name me king, but she never believed you were dead.” 

 

Jon isn’t sure where he finds the courage to ask, but he does.

 

“What about you? Did you think I was dead?” Eddard looks away at that, and Jon wants to curse himself for putting such a question to a ten year old, a boy who must surely be feeling the weight of so much change and upheaval all in one day. Before he can apologize, however, Eddard speaks.

 

“I don’t know. The way Mother talked about you, I couldn’t imagine that you were dead. She called you a hero a lot, and in the songs the heroes always survive.” Songs and heroes, things he had never thought to hear from Sansa again, spoken through the mouth of their son.

 

“Heroes don’t always survive,” Jon says before he can stop himself, thinking of the uncle who had raised him, the king Jon had called brother.

 

“But you did.” It is the simplicity of Eddard’s words that brings a slight chuckle to his lips, the implication from his _son_ that he is a hero just like those in Sansa’s songs. Jon isn’t sure he can believe it, now or perhaps ever, but perhaps it is enough that Eddard does.

 

 _My son_ , he thinks again, sliding his hand from one of Eddard’s shoulders to the other to pull him gently into his side, slow enough that the boy could pull away if he wanted to.

 

But he doesn’t, and that _is_ enough.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://melessatarlys.tumblr.com)!


End file.
